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POEMS 

of  the  Soil  and   Sea 


THE  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  PUBLICATION  PRIZE 
WAS  OFFERED  BY  MR.  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  OF  THE 
CLASS  OF  IQI2  COLUMBIA  COLLEGE  TO  UNDER- 
GRADUATES WHO  SHOWED  PROMISE  AS  WRITERS. 
THE  PRIZE  CONSISTS  OF  THE  PUBLICATION  EACH 
YEAR  OF  THAT  BOOK  BY  AN  UNDERGRADUATE 
WHICH  IS  JUDGED  MOST  DESERVING  OF  THE 
HONOR. 

1921  COBBLESTONES  by  David  Sentntr 

1922  POEMS  OF  THE  SOIL  AND  SEA 

by  Charles  A.  Wagner 


POEMS 

of  the  Soil  and  Sea 

By  Charles  A.  Wagner 


New  York 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  October,  19tS 


Set  up  and  printed  6s/  tTie  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 

Paper  furnished  6i/  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  l>v  the  H.  Wolff  Ettate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


MANUFACTURED     IN    THE     UNITED     STATES    OF    AMERICA 


Ps 

354-5 


DEDICATED   TO 

JOHN  ERSKINE, 

Poet  and  Priest  of  Life, 
In  the  Academy  .   .   .   . 


48S356 

UNURY 


Thanks  are  due  the  editors  of  The  Mea- 
sure, The  Nomad,  The  Pagan,  Munseys, 
The  Mornfngside,  The  Bellows  Falls 
Vermont  Times,  The  American  Intercol- 
legiate Magazine,  The  New  York  Trib- 
une, and  other  periodicals  for  permission 
to  reprint  some  of  these  poems.  For  per- 
mission to  reprint  "The  Alarm"  thanks 
are  due  the  publishers  of  the  College  An- 
thology for  1921-22. 


PROEM. 

To  My  Wife 

RUTH  WARTERS 

Vision  of  visions, 
Love  of  all  love, 

Beautiful  poem 
Sung  from  above 

Somewhere  and  always 
Song  was  your  soul; 

You  are  the  poet, 
Endless  the  scroll. 


CONTENTS 

I  All  Summer  Have  I  Sat  in  Thought,  i 

II  From  the  Heart  of  the  Tender  Sparrow,  5 

III  Regret  That  I  Have  Known  You,  7 

IV  Look,  Love,  How  the  Gentle  Moon,  8 

V     Into  the  Heart  Returns  the  Fallen  Flower, 

9 

VI     Why  Do  I  Love  You?  10 
VII     A  Child,  Playing,  n 

VIII     To-day  There  Is  a  Warning  in  the  Wind, 
12 

IX     Histories  Do  Not  Speak  of  the  Green  Riot, 

13 
X     Here  on  the  Open  Highway  Once  I  Trod, 

H 

XI     When  Life  Has  Had  Enough  of  Me,  16 
XII     Do  Not  Think  That  I  Shall  Hide,  17 

XIII  How  the  Thought  of  You  Is  a  Coming  in, 

18 

XIV  Long  Did  I  Wonder  at  the  Carpet  of  Blue, 

19 
XV     I  Take  the  Road  That  Leads  Me  There, 

21 

XVI     Magic  of  White  Sunlight  on  Green,  23 
XVII     Moments  Are  Tiny  Fireflies,  24 
XVIII     Last  Night  There  Lit  Upon  My  Bed,  26 
XIX     Shadows  Have  Music  Too,   and  Shadows 
Know,  27 


XX     I  Will  Turn  Back  an  Hour,  To-day,  28 
XXI     Show  Me  the  Lips  That  Know  No  Hour 

of  Song,  29 
XXII     Each  Year  Ten  Thousand  People  Ride,  30 

XXIII  Two  Farmers  Lived  in  a  Small  Town,  31 

XXIV  Dead    Summer    Leaves    Upon    the    Forest 

Floor,  32 

XXV     My  Soul  Is  a  Purple  Cavern,  33 
XXVI     In  the  Quiet  Valley,  34 
XXVII     I  Shall  Be  Turning  Down  Unending  Lanes, 

35 

XXVIII     I  Pounded  on  the  Iron  Gates,  36 
XXIX    When  Strangely  Still  This  Heart  Shall  Lie, 

37 

XXX    The  Years  Shall  Thunder  By,  38 
XXXI     A  Tomb-like  Silence  Is  Upon  the  Streets, 

40 
XXXII     God  Weaved  a  Tapestry,  42 

XXXIII  I'll  Have  Music  to  Send  Me  Away,  43 

XXXIV  I  Shall  Go  Down  to  the  Shore,  44 
XXXV     I  Remember  a  Yellow  Butterfly,  46 

XXXVI     The  Town  Where  My  Love  Lives,  47 
XXXVII     Cool  Autumn  Works  No  Changes  Here,  49 
XXXVIII     Far  in  Virginia's  Eyes  I  See,  50 
XXXIX     The  Sudden  Glimpse  of  a  Faun,  51 

XL     Faint  Blossoms  That  Fade  and  Fall,  52 
XLI     Whether  I  Go  from  This  Eternal  Vast, 

("RUTH"),    53 

XLII     The  Tall  Men  Run  the  Harbor,  54 
XLIII     This  Is  the  Sorrow  That  Returns  to  Me, 

56 
XLIV    Always  the  Wave  Turns  Back  Upon  the 

Shore,  6 1 
XLV     Over  the  Paleness  of  Your  Saint-like  Face, 

("MOTHER"),  62 


POEMS 

of  the    Soil  and   Sea 


All  summer  have  I  sat  in  thought, 

Burned  my  poor  brain 

And,  through  lamps  of  stars 

Walked  with  the  pain. 

"It  is  not  long"  my  soul  would  say, 

"It  is  not  long." 

Soon  Autumn  will  come  down  to  me 

Crazy  with  song, 

She  will  toe-dance  with  Gypsy  brown  feet 

Scratching,  scratching  along  the  street. 


I  will  not  say  these  books  are  dead, 
With  summer  bending  at  my  door; 
A  poet's  spirit  walks  by  day 
When  sunlight  falls  upon  the  floor 
And  sings  from  off  the  shelf,  and  lives; 
O  we  are  all  God's  fugitives ! 


All  night  the  twinkling  needles  wove 
A  diamond  dress  of  dew, 


An  angry  father,  came  the  wind 
And  tore  the  meshes  through; 

But  silently  the  Prince  of  Light 

Stole  up  and  snatched  the  naked  sprite! 

4 

In  the  morning  steadily 

I  walk  down  the  lawn, 

I  thrust  my  bare  feet  through  the  dew 

Happy  I  was  born. 

The  quiet  is  a  crystal  cup 

That  splinters  when  the  birds  are  up.  . 

5 

When  I  went  out  to  call  the  cows, 
I  crossed  a  field  half  plowed, 
And  suddenly  I  found  that  I 
Had  walked  into  a  cloud. 

Like  through  a  prayer  I  heard  cow  bells, 
A  white  dream  covered  me; 
I  laughed,  remembering  how  men 
Paint  clouds  in  poetry! 


You  will  look  upon  me  now 
As  I  cross  the  last  small  field 


And  never  understand 

How  I  do  not  run  to  you,  and  yield. 

If  clouds  flew  quickly  to  the  sun 
O  God  would  burn  them,  every  one; 
Green  are  the  leaves  of  passion's  crown, 
But  love  will  wait  till  they  are  down.  . 

7 

Climbing  over  a  county  of  hills 
Is  no  play, 

And  when  a  man  is  thirsty 
The  rocks  are  in  his  way. 

The  sun  set  in  a  harbor 
Of  waters  lit  like  flame, 
But  one  must  see  a  sunset 
For  words  are  not  the  same. 

There  was  a  farmer  lad  more  kind 
Than  sixty  sunsets  are, 
He'd  rather  fetch  a  mug  of  milk 
Than  gossip  with  a  star! 

8 

Before  I  even  knew 

The  blossoms  died, 

The  trucks  came  rumbling  down 

Bulging  barrels  at  the  side, 

In  which  the  apples  ride. 

[3] 


They  should  float  apples  down  the  river 
That  men  might  recognize  the  Giver.  .  . 


Little  grains  of  dust 
Blown  from  foreign  lands, 
Clinging  to  earth  forever, 
These  are  my  hands, 

O  sad  years  in  the  house  I  know! 

0  dead  leaves  dropping  on  eternal  snow! 

10 

Through  the  barren  orchard 
The  sky  is  pale  and  sad, 
The  trees  are  shriveled  women 
Who  once  were  color  clad. 

1  try  to  tell  them  Spring  will  sew 
New  blossoms  that  are  white  as  snow. 


[4] 


II 

From  the  heart  of  the  tender  sparrow, 
From  the  throat  of  the  careless  jay 
One  note  was  in  the  singing 
Of  the  flying-songs  that  day. 

From  the  breath  of  the  early  lilac, 
From  its  pink  and  purple  flower, 
One  worried  whispered  fragrance 
That  told  the  Day,  the  Hour  .  .  . 

And  all  the  meadow-stations 
Stirred  with  the  lovely  word; 
Then  suddenly  the  wind  came  down, 
Hid  in  the  grass,  and  heard 

And  over  the  hills  the  warning  went 
To  the  Valley  and  violet  Wood, 
The  rustling  of  the  big-tops 
Told  that  it  understood.  .  .  . 

From  the  sun  on  the  dancing  rivers, 
From  the  rim  of  the  rising  moon, 
Out  of  the  liquid  shadows 
One  pastoral,  one  tune, 

[5] 


Over  the  sleepy  meadows 

Into  the  trees  it  ran, 

Thrilling  branch  and  blade  and  bird 

With  one  alarm:     A  Manl  .  .  . 


[6] 


Ill 

Regret  that  I  have  known  you  .  .  .   ? 
Spring  still  blows  .  .  . 
Forget  that  I  have  found  you 
Like  a  rose  .  .  .    ? 

Nay  ...  I  never  shall  forget 
That  sweet  smell — 
Only,  I  thought  you  freer, 
Wilder  dwell. 

Stay — stay  within  your  garden 
Planted  well, 

I  dreamed  of  riot-blossoms 
In  a  dell, 

I  did  not  dream  of  gardens — 
(What  a  fate 
To  lie  a  million  ages 
Near  a  gate.  .  .  .) 


[7] 


IV 

Look,  love,  how  the  gentle  moon 
Wanders  stately  through  the  trees, 
And  the  little  stars  that  trail 
Are  like  blossoms  torn  from  these. 

We  are  blossoms  of  the  sod 
Torn  with  stately  hands  from  God, 
Taken  from  His  eager  bed, 
By  His  gentle  fingers  led 

And  His  ways  are  all  too  soon 
Those  of  stars  that  trail  the  moon. 


[8] 


Into  the  heart  returns  the  fallen  flower 
And  none  may  see  the  broken  pride 
That  flows,  except  a  heart  that  sprang 
From  fallen  flowers  of  the  sunless  tide.  .  .  . 

I  have  found  loveliness  where  sunlight  thrills 
Quietly  living  ivy  on  a  wall, 
I  have  seen  violets  reach  above  a  field 
And  toss  their  tragic  faces  daisy-tall. 

When  these  have  fallen  I  alone  may  know, 
Each  field,  each  farm,  each  cloud-swept  bower, 
Into  my  heart  the  fallen  blossoms  blow, 
Into  my  heart  returns  the  flower. 


[9] 


VI 

Why  do  I  love  you? 
Ask  me  why 
Slim  reeds  go  reaching 
For  the  sky.  .  .  . 

Why  do  I  love  you? 
Do  I  know 

What  hidden  dream  makes 
Roses  grow  .  .  .    ? 

I  have  the  reason, 
Soul  and  mind 
And  the  far  purpose 
Of  the  wind.  .  .  . 

Why  do  I  love  you? 
Because  I 

Can  never  tell  you, 
That  is  why.  .  .  . 


[10] 


VII 

A  child,  playing 

With  its  mother's  fingers.  .    .    . 

So  too,  O  God, 

Do  I  cling  to  Your  Song 

And  seek  Your  beauty, 

Knowing,  ah  knowing 

That  soon  you  too  shall  look  down 

And  smile. 


VIII 

Today  there  is  a  warning  in  the  wind, 
The  dawn  was  not  so  silken-light  before, 
Today  there  is  a  spirit  warm  and  kind 
Waiting  outside  the  sun-washed,  eastern  door, 
Who  whispers:     "Take  your  green  and  gold 

and  blue, 
Painter  of  Life,  take  them  along  with  you  1" 


[12] 


IX 

Histories  do  not  speak  of  the  green  riot; 
It  is  not  the  clamoring  of  a  land  or  a  people, 
Nor  rifle-shots  from  a  barricaded  street. 

Each  summer  new  sabers  of  green  unsheath 
Their  naked  blades  to  the  warm,  golden  air 
Under  barrage  of  pointed  tongues  of  flame.  .  .  . 
Charging  out  over  trails  and  tarry  roads — 

And  there  is  no  loud  report  of  victory 
When  tiny  searching  fingers  of  the  ivy 
Reach  over  a  telegraph  pole.  .  .  . 


[13] 


Here  on  the  open  highway  once  I  trod 
When,  in  despair,  I  thought  to  find  my  God. 
I  plucked  the  painted  flowers  from  the  ground, 
Laughed  with  the  wind,   answered  its   every 

sound. 

I  ate  my  fill  of  berries  by  the  road, 
Drank  beauty  from  a  cup  that  overflowed 
In  tiny  moments  of  unended  joy 
So  that  the  skies  became  a  running  boy 
Shouting  against  the  hills  of  silent  blue, 
And  joy  and  I  were  one  lad,  that  I  knew! 

I  flung  my  naked  body  in  a  lake 

And  swam  from  shore  to  shore  for  swimming's 

sake. 

I  slept  beneath  a  catafalque  of  stars 
Until  the  morning  with  her  colored  bars 
Came    like    a    rose-cheeked    girl    who    never 

grieves, 

Came  tip-toeing,  blowing  to  my  bed  of  leaves, 
Came  from  the  warm  and  unastonished  South 
To  set  her  feeble  kiss  upon  my  mouth.  .  .  . 
The  road  was  inland  with  safe  lamps  glowing 
Like  dim-lit  harbors  of  sails  soft  blowing. 


Alas!     I  do  not  tramp  the  highway  more, 

For,  once,  as  I  passed  by  an  open  door 

I  heard  a  young  girl  playing  in  the  night, 

And  when  I  saw  her  in  the  parlor  light 

Her  face  was  shining  with  a  golden  dream. 

Misty  as  sunlit  vapor  did  it  seem, 

And  as  I  looked  upon  her  tiny  hands 

I  saw  the  sunshine  of  a  million  lands. 

The  keys  were  washing  waters  that  the  rain 

Drove  out  upon  the  sea  in  silver  stain.  .  .  . 

Her  mother  came,  and  took  the  girl  to  bed, 

Blew  out  the  lamps  until  the  house  was  dead 

The  night — it  hung  its  colored  stars,  and  yet 
There  was  a  light  more  beautifully  set. 
The  wind — it  was  so  warm  and  sweet,  and  yet 
There  was  a  sweeter  one  that  I  had  met. 
The  road — it  was  so  good  to  me,  and  yet 
There  was  another  road  I  can't  forget. 


XI 

When  life  has  had  enough  of  me 
And  I  am  done  with  breath 
From  silent  skies  and  bending  sea, 
I  shall  not  dream  of  death. 

I  think  if  Autumn  leaves  can  blow 
Into  an  open  sky, 
And  have  a  dance  or  two  to  show 
Before  they  curl  and  dry, 

I  who  have  known  the  blue-bird's  cry 
And  tree-top  song,  I  shall  not  die! 


[16] 


XII 

Do  not  think  that  I  shall  hide 

Or  God  shall  keep  me  at  his  side, 

For,  restless  as  I  was  before 

So  shall  I  be  f  orevermore, 

And  I  shall  laugh  when  winds  annoy 

The  peace  of  tree-tops  into  joy. 

I  shall  be  where  rain-drops  fall 
Along  the  ivy  of  the  wall, 
And  if  you  care  to  come  to  me 
Tap  on  the  bark  of  any  tree, 
And  I  shall  hear  you  from  above 
And  know  you  haven't  ceased  to  love. 

Do  not  bring  me  wreaths  of  flowers 
Or  pray  beside  this  little  mound 
For,  with  the  first  warm  driving  showers 
I  shall  have  risen  from  the  ground ! 


[17] 


XIII 

How  the  thought  of  you  is  a  coming  in 
From  hot  fields  when  the  marble  hours  begin, 
The    cool,    cool   hours    of    evening   when   the 

brown 
Tree     shadows     turn     their     western     faces 

down.  .  .  . 

How  the  thought  of  you  is  a  sweet  cool  drink 
Out  of  the  glistening  well  or  at  the  brink 
When  stars  are  in  the  bucket  a»  you  pull; 
I  look  in  your  heart   and  emerge  brimming 

full.  . 


[18] 


XIV 

Long  did  I  wonder  at  the  carpet  of  blue, 

0  to  plunge  far  down  into  its  mystic  waters 
And  drown  in  a  glory  of  dew.  .  .  . 

From  somewhere  came  moving  white-robed 
sails 

And  raced  their  changing  shallops  across  the 
inverted  sea 

Stretching  and  urging  in  scattering  splen- 
dor. .  .  . 

1  knew   not  which   would   win,   for   all  were 

equally  great  and  fleet, 

But  soon  one  lone  sail  remained  of  all  the  con- 
test, 

One  did  not  part  and  melt,  like  snow  that 
falls  in  the  sea.  .  .  . 

One  rolled  on  and  on,  breaking  each  delicate 
fleecy  thread 

Until  the  race  was  won 

And  the  medallion  of  gold.  .  .  . 

I  must  helplessly  cling  to  earth 
And  the  young,  frail,  new-budding  trees 
[19] 


Sway  in  despair  with  me.  .  .  . 

We  have  a  common  desire, 

We  would  roam  the  silken  waters  of  the  misty 

Heavens, 
Rootless  and  branchless,  and  at  last  be  free; 

On  Earth  the  smallest  sparrow 
Brings  Jealousy.   .  .  . 


[20] 


XV 

I  take  the  road  that  leads  me  there, 
The  quiet  woods  I  know, 
No  feet  but  mine  have  ever  trod 
That  pathway  gemmed  with  snow. 

All  year  the  sun  sleeps  on  the  stones, 
The  air  is  still  and  mild, 
There  is  a  trembling  quiet  like 
The  dreaming  of  a  child. 

Here  sorrows  do  not  ever  walk 
Nor  pain  nor  any  fears, 
There's  never  a  time  the  quiet  woods 
Have  failed  to  dry  my  tears. 

Only  once  there  was  a  stirring 

In  that  silent  place, 

In  wonderment  I  stood  and  watched 

The  storm  clouds  spread  and  race 

Through  tree  tops  maddened  with  the  wind 
And  furious  and  wild; 
There  was  no  quiet  then,  no  dream 
Resembling  any  child. 

[21] 


Somewhere  I  knew  another's  heart 
Had  caught  unconquered  woe ; 
Tossing  of  quiet  woods,  and  storm, 
Melted  eternal  snow, 

These  are  not  written  for  the  fields 
Rage  in  a  quiet  wood, 
O  I  have  read  your  lips  at  last, 
O  I  have  understood! 


[22] 


XVI 

Magic  of  white  sunlight  on  green 
Is  over  now.  .  .  . 
Only  whispers  of  blue  between 
The  grass,  and  how 

A  sky  brings  home  her  tired  flocks 
From  crimson  halls. 
As  Night  takes  down  her  jeweled  box 
Silver  dust  falls.  .  .  . 

But  you  have  laughed  with  love,  you  seem 

Out  of  Time's  care, 

And  moon-white  roses  in  a  dream 

Are  not  so  fair.  .  .  . 

All  June  lies  sunken,  with  her  skies 
And  her  bright  bars; 
Are  you  an  angel,  that  your  eyes 
Are  pools  of  stars  .  .  .   ? 


XVII 

Moments  are  tiny  fireflies 
Signalling  to  my  soul, 
Flickering  fireflies 
In  the  twilight.  .  .  . 

The  muscles  of  a  bird's  throat 

Moving  in  song, 

The  faint  whispers  of  a  lost  love 

Which  say:     "I  have  time  to  linger 

In  your  dream,  and  you  may  touch  me  yet  a 

while — 
Until  your  own  cry  wakes  you,  you  may  touch 

me" 

Moments  are  snowy  branches 
Broken  by  the  winds.  .  .  . 

O  the  sunspilling  sweeps 
Of  a  church  organ, 
O  the  flying  journeys 
And  the  singing  meadow-maidens 
And  the  endless  procession 
Of  warm  Beauty.  .  .  . 
[24] 


Give  me  such  voice  that  I 
Might  split  the  sky; 
Out  of  the  storm  and  thunder 
Does  music  fly.  .  .  . 

Your  fires,  O  Soul,  are  moments 
Kindled  with  pain; 
Tears  do  not  ease  desire 
Nor  can  the  rain.  . 


XVIII 

Last  night  there  lit  upon  my  bed 

A  pale  blue  spectre,  cold  and  dread. 

I  thought  it  wore  a  mantle  new 

And  heavy  with  a  crystal  dew. 

Its  feet  and  hands  like  elfin  thieves 

I  knew  had  been  a'chasing  leaves. 

It  had  a  way  of  giving  pain 

And  smelling  sweetly  of  the  rain. 

It  whispered  with  its  purple  lips 

Of  flying  foam  and  tossing  ships 

And  bending  over  me,  it  said: 

"The  summer  that  you  love  is  dead!   .  .  . 

Dawn  will  not  step  across  the  dew 

With  pink-white  toe  or  velvet  shoe, 

Nor  will  blue  blossoms  strew  the  air, 

Or  golden  flowers  toss  their  hair 

Again  .  .  .  the  trees  will  all  be  bare, 

And  winds  will  hold  loud  meetings  there !  . 


XIX 

Shadows  have  music  too,  and  shadows  know 

Passion  and  sensibility  and  pain. 

Half  of  my  life  across  the  snow  I  throw 

In  shadow.  ...  It  shall  dwell  with  me  again 

When  Spring,  the  blossom-haunted,  walks  the 

earth, 
Blessing  the  meadows  with  a  song  of  birth. 


XX 

TO  R.  W. 

I  will  turn  back  an  hour,  today 
I  will  steal  down  a  lovely  way 
Hazy  with  gold  and  tender  blue; 
In  fancy  I  will  walk  with  you 
Again.  ...  It  will  be  good  to  see 
Your  face  lit  up  with  melody.  .  .  . 

In  the  low  hills  your  laughter  rang 
Against  white  fog — .  Always  you  sang 
With  simple  meaning,  yet  apart — 
You  sang  the  beauty  of  your  heart, 
And  in  your  eyes  there  was  a  gleam 
Of  light  half  militant,  half  dream. 

The  book  that  we  had  partly  read, 

The  dead  sage  slumbers  still,  the  red 

Leaf  keeps  the  page,  and  drooped  and  dry 

A  trembling  violet  tries  to  die. 

Life  Giver,  touch  again  this  flower 

With  Spring  .  .  .    ! 

I  will  turn  back  an  hour, 
And  in  the  everlasting  dew 
Fancy  will  let  me  walk  with  you.  .  .  . 
[28] 


XXI 

Show  me  the  lips  that  know  no  hour  of  song 
When  sunlight  falls  on  green  with  hot  embrace, 
When  violets  hide,  and  daisies  bravely  throng, 
And  cushion-clouds  are  trailing  in  blue 
space. 

The  year  flaunts  green  and  gold  and  blue  to  turn 
With  laughing  eyes  our  semblance  from  the  dead, 
And  summer  gathers  these  to  flame  and  burn 
In  tireless  vigil,  like  a  torch  of  red. 

O  Spring's  a  little  girl  with  pink-white  toes, 
But  Summer  thrills  the  fingers  of  a  root, 
Her  lips  are  smoother  than  the  dewy  rose; 
In  her  warm   arms   the  trees   toss   down  their 
fruit. 


XXII 

Each  year  ten  thousand  people  ride 

In  summer  to  the  country  side, 

They  come  in  silk  and  satin  gown 

Treading  the  lovely  woodland  down 

So  that  a  farmer  lad  must  creep 

In  shame  behind  his  careless  sheep, 

So  that  the  stars  rain  in  the  dew 

A  tearful  silver  retinue, 

So  that  the  valley  looking  up 

With  hotel  lights  within  its  cup 

Asks  God  for  simple  folk  again 

Who  take  their  bread  and  butter  plain. 


[30] 


XXIII 

Two  farmers  lived  in  a  small  town 
With  furrowed  land  a'sloping  down 
The  valley;  both  were  giant  men 
And  could  turn  over  ground  for  ten. 
Ploughing  a  field  or  pitching  hay 
Was  nothing  more  than  so  much  play. 
The  buzz-saws  sang  without  a  stop 
Down  at  the  mill,  when  they  would  chop. 
Vermont  snow  storms  went  sweeping  by 
Unheeded  .  .  .  their  wood-piles  were  high.  .  .  . 

But  one  of  them,  the  one  named  Brown 

When  chores  were  done,  he  would  steal  down 

A  book  or  two,  and  in  the  light 

Of  an  oil  lamp  would  read  all  night.  .  .  . 

They  say  that  he  was  seen  to  be 

Once  in  the  County  Library.  .  .  . 

The  other  man  named  Roy  is  dead; 
Blue  flowers  grow  above  his  head.  .  .  . 
Brown's  bed  is  overgrown  with  weed — 
Brown  wrote  a  little  book  on  "Seed".  .  ,  , 

[31] 


XXIV 

Dead  summer  leaves  upon  the  forest  floor, 
Oft,  when  your  maples  swayed  contentedly, 
Proud  with  their  burden,  did  your  accents  pour 
Blessed  o'er  me.   .  .   . 

What  Might  am  I,  or  by  what  fabled  charm 
Given  my  feet  to  trample  your  long  sleep  ? 
Yet  would  you  bid  me  step  in  no  alarm 
Soft,  ankle-deep 

Into  your  bosom  that  has  combed  the  wind, 
What  though  the  sun,  of  bitterness  in  rain 
Leaving  for  tears,  sweet  sap  of  Faith  entwined 
To  flow  again! 

Hushed  in  the  holy  stillness  of  your  might, 
Yours  is  the  charity  of  God.     I  see 
In  your  dry  midst  of  fallen  leaves  that  light 
He  made  to  be.  ... 


[3*] 


XXV 

My  soul  is  a  purple  cavern 

Open  for  them  that  pass, 

Flowers    that    life    has    relinquished, 

Violets  smothered  by  grass, 

Wind  in  the  hills,  night  forsaken 

Dawns  all  dewy  with  tears ; 

My  soul  is  a  purple  cavern 

Heavy  and  sad  as  the  years. 


[33] 


XXVI 

In  the  quiet  valley 

The  sun  found  gossip : 

uDo  you  know"  asked  a  brown  blade  of  grass 

Of  its  green  neighbor, 

"Do  you  know  whether  winter  has  passed?" 

"What  is  winter?"  asked  the  green  blade. 

Hill  trees  whispered  something  about  a  moon 
Taking  the  sky  far  off, 
And  the  truant  sun  said  to  the  hill-flowers : 
"The  moon  shall  come  here  searching  for  my 

secrets, 

But  tell  him  nothing,  I  beg  you" 
And  she  stole  away  over  the  mountains. 

When  the  moon  with  silver  lips  that  night 

Whistled  down  to  the  flowers 

They  were  shut  tight, 

Feigning  sleep. 

A  million  fire-flies  signalled  to  him — 

But  he  thought  they  were  only 

Mocking  the  stars. 

[34] 


XXVII 

I  shall  be  turning  down  unending  lanes 
Of  loveliness,  and  singing  as  I  go, 
The  quiet  flowers  shall  consult  the  wind 
Of  this  strange  wanderer  who  dares  to  know 
The  secret  of  God's  tranquil  ways  below. 

I  shall  be  asking  of  the  wind  no  tune, 

Nor  of  the  roadside  flower  any  sweet, 

Only  my  voice  shall  tell  my  soul's  power, 

Only  my  heart  shall  quicken  at  His  feet 

Where  poets  long  before  found  strange  retreat. 


[35] 


XXVIII 

I  pounded  on  the  iron  gates 
That  open  from  within, 
A  voice  in  that  strange  sanctum  said: 
"You  may  not  enter  in." 

I  pounded  harder  (feet  and  hands) 
Restless  as  a  dream, 
I  shouted  through  the  spiked  bars 
That  muffled  every  scream.   .  .  . 

Dawn  came  like  peace,  the  bars  grew  soft, 

The  gateman's  bolt  undid, 

The  gates  fell  forward  on  the  path 

As  every  cross-bar  slid. 

My  face,  so  wet  with  young  love's  tears 
Turned  not  from  easy  flight 
But,  like  a  cave  soul  given  wings, 
Stepped  gladly  in  the  light. 

I  might  have  been  more  hesitant, 
The  years  ahead  shall  say. 
Walls  do  not  yield  as  easily 
To  love,  as  to  decay; 
A  gate  moves  but  one  way.  .  .  . 
[36] 


XXIX 

When  strangely  still  this  heart  shall  lie, 
For  all  the  roving  blue 
Of  some  warm,  deep  Autumnal  sky, 
I  shall  not  think  of  you.  .  .  . 

When  grasses  seek  to  grow  above 

A  white,  consenting  brow 

And  wonder-eyed,  the  daisies  shove 

Unseen,1  I  may  know  how 

In  darkness  to  despatch  my  love 

This  way  or  that.  .  .  .     How  can  I  now. 


[37] 


XXX 

The  years  shall  thunder  by, 
The  years  of  pain; 
Sorrow  shall  beat  her  wings 
In  vain — in  vain, 

For  Time's  the  fleet  shadow 
Of  a  white  cloud, 
That  does  not  cross  the  hill 
Till  the  field's  plowed.    .    .    . 

And  like  a  plow  in  Spring 
Laughs  to  the  sod, 
Time  floats  across  the  sky 
To  smile  on  God.    .    .    . 

Deep  is  the  furrow  made! 
The  daisies  droop 
Under  the  turning  earth 
As  martyrs  stoop. 

To  print  a  clean,  white  kiss 
Upon  Earth's  hand, 
And  then  go  down  and  dream 
Their  Purple  Land.  .  .  . 
[38] 


The  years  shall  wander  by, 
The  years  of  pain, 
And  Love  shall  have  her  day 
Again — again.  .  .  . 


[39l 


XXXI 

A  tomb-like  silence  is  upon  the  streets ; 

The   hours,   so   dark,   will  soon  be  sprinkling 

gray.   .   .  . 

Dead  world!  why  is  there  no  completed  peace, 
But    struggling    sleep-sounds    begging    dawn 

away  .  .  .    ? 

I  hear  my  soul  astir,  I  feel  it  speak 
Somewhere    on    some    cool   ship    where    I    lie 

stretched, 
Where  Love  is  one  with  Peace,   and  each  is 

rest   .  .   . 
Along  whose  dreamy  sails  my  life  is  sketched 

A  heavy  wagon  on  some  far-off  street 
Is  jolting  slowly  across  the  cobble-stone; 
Then  come  the  ringing  heels  on  the  flint  walk 
That  never  failed  their  nightly  measured  tone, 
And  now  the  window-purple  flits  within, 
I  see  it  rolling  balls  of  mist,  before 
The  struggle  with  the  midnight  in  my  room 
To  leave  the  early  light  upon  the  floor.  .  .  . 

Come,  purple  banners  of  the  silken  dawn, 
[40] 


Lighter  than  kisses  .  .  .  come  with  dew-sweet 

lips 

To  heal  in  coolness  these,  my  fevered  eyes 
(White  ships  are  whispering  to  eager 

skies.   .  .  .) 

Until  I  see  the  slanting  sails  of  ships 
Buoyant  and  bravely  bending  out  to  sea 
Again.  .  .  .  Bravely  and  boldly  I  will  go.  ... 
I    do   not   know   what   lands   may   greet   me 

then —  ? 
My  one  joy  is  I  do  not  want  to  know.  .  .  . 


[41] 


XXXII 

God  weaved  a  tapestry 

Of  pink  coral  and  green, 

And  spread  it  over  the  sea, 

But  your  radiance  has  faded  it; 

Which  is  more  than  the  sun  could  do, 

Or  the  marring  prows  of  ships.  .  .  . 


[42] 


XXXIII 

I'll  have  music  to  send  me  away, 

O  the  winds 

With  their  soft  violins  that  will  play, 

And  the  trees 

That  will  stir  like  a  chorus  that  day.  .  . 

No  processions  of  people  will  crowd 
At  the  pier, 

There'll  be  nothing  discordant  and  loud 
As  I  near, 

But  my  soul  will  go  bravely  and  proud 
Without  fear 

Like  a  ship  that  slips  noiseless  away 
Down  the  bay.  .  .  . 


[43] 


XXXIV 

I  shall  go  down  to  the  shore 
And  watch  the  sea-gulls  there, 
And  all  the  wavy  waters 
Shall  glisten  in  my  hair, 

I  shall  walk  into  sunsets, 
Open  fires  of  the  West 
And  ease  my  heart  with  beauty 
That  lets  me  lie  and  rest.  .  .  . 

Better  than  the  cold  kisses 
Of  your  unyielding  mouth 

Shall  be  the  wind  upon  my  face 
That  thrilled  the  tropic  South, 

And  sweeter  than  your  singing 
Shall  sing  the  slanting  rain, 
Because  hers  is  a  melody 
That  does  not  end  in  pain. 

When  rain  collects  her  music 
And  steps  down  from  the  sky 
She  kisses  all  the  flowers 
And  sets  white  clouds  to  fly, 
[44] 


She  sprinkles  all  the  meadows 
With  perfume  from  above ; 
The  rain  knows  more  than  you  do 
Of  music  and  of  Love.  . 


[45] 


XXXV 

I  remember  a  yellow  butterfly 

Searching   along  Broadway 

For  some  meadow. 

But  my  pity  vanished 

When  it  fluttered  by  a  florist's  window 

And  would  not  even  look  in.  . 


[46] 


XXXVI 

The  town  where  my  love  lives 
Is  a  quiet  town» 
The  trees  wait  and  listen 
And  no  sound  comes  down^ 

The  streets  have  a  holy 
Heavenly  whiteness, 
Often  I've  seen  there 
God's  torch  of  brightness. 

How  the  wind  saddens 
When  it  runs  there, 
Finds  nothing  but  petals 
And  green  willow  hair, 

Finds  no  voice  but  sunlight 
Ready  to  sing, 
Uttering  notes  that 
The  higher  winds  bring. 

I  take  my  chair  there 
And  sit  by  her  door, 
And  all  that  my  love  sings 
I  know  from  before. 

[47] 


No  one  can  see  her, 
White  is  the  door, 
Green  is  the  carpet 
Spread  on  the  floor, 

Golden  the  windows, 
Easy  the  knob, 
Turning  upon  the 
First  little  sob. 

Only  I  see  her, 
Only  I  hear, 
Night  does  not  fill  me 
With  any  fear, 

The  town  where  my  love  liet 
Is  a  high  town, 
Only  the  living 
Ever  come  down. 


[48] 


XXXVII 

Cool  autumn  works  no  changes  here, 
She  does  not  paint  green  leaves  to  red, 
Ah  no,  these  things  have  vanished  now, 
The  Indians  that  once  danced  are  dead, 
The  white,  broad  days  of  sun  have  fled. 

A  squaw  with  earthen  bowl  would  sit 
All  day  upon  this  spot  and  be 
Content  with  blue  warmth  in  the  air, 
And  white  birds  flung  themselves  to  sea 
Like  stitched  upon  a  tapestry. 

There  was  a  whisper  in  the  roar, 

The  sunless  street  swarmed  gray  and  old, 

"Peace  will  not  soon  return  again" 

The  ancient  roots  and  ivy  bold 

Their  million  hovering  spirits  told, 

Dreaming  of  amber  and  of  gold. 

And  suddenly  a  calm  came  down 
And  tired  peace  began  to  creep 
Into  the  tortured  places  where 
The  noises  had  gone  down  most  deep; 
I  thought  I  heard  the  weary  arms 
Of  Indians,  stirred  in  troubled  sleep.  .  .  . 
[49] 


XXXVIII 

Far  in  Virginia's  eyes  I  see 
The  shining  wealth  of  Italy 
Upon  whose  diamond  hills  the  sun 
Plays  with  the  sea  in  unison. 
Those  eyes  are  tales  that  sailors  tell 
When  ships  are  mounting  in  the  swell, 
And  in  her  dream-lit  hair,  lost  showers 
Of  ancient  gardens  store  their  flowers. 

Is  it  as  well  that  she  live  here 
Pale  and  contented  as  the  beer 
Which  her  old  father  drinks  at  night 
Long  after  turning  down  the  light? 
What  of  the  wine  her  lips  once  knew, 
The  purple  grapes  her  fathers  grew? 
What  of  the  marble  of  her  arms 
Swaying  in  pastorals  and  psalms, 

What  of  her  ashen  colored  toes 
That  are  ten  pearls  in  slender  rows? 
Ah,  she  is  far  too  rare  and  fine 
For  hanging  clothes  upon  a  line  1 

[50] 


XXXIX 

The  sudden  glimpse  of  a  faun, 
Your  slender  body,  and  your  eyes, 
Are  these  things  beautiful 
Like  the  beauty  of  quiet  waters 
Taking  on  dawn? 

Beauty  of  quiet  waters 

Taking  on  dawn, 

How  shall  I  tell  your  beauty 

Above  body  or  eyes 

Or  a  sudden  faun? 


xxxx 

Faint  blossoms  that  fade  and  fall 

Are  the  fading  tattered  clouds, 

And  bitter  is  the  wind  on  the  Connecticut; 

Soon  night  will  come, 

And  the  young  stars  will  tell  stones, 

Their  eyes  glistening  with  tears  of  laughter, 

But  the  older  ones  will  stand  by  and  listen 

Unmoved.  .  .  . 

Until    the    fields    have    begun    their    twilight 

dreams, 

Until  the  tall  corn  has  stopped  its  playing, 
Until  the  lamps  are  lit  in  the  tiny  farm-houses 
And  the  young  boys  have  brought  in  the  cows, 
The  sunset  lingers.   .  .  . 


[52] 


XXXXI 
RUTH 

Whether  I  go  from  this  eternal  Vast 
Into  another,  it  is  one  to  me. 
It  was  enough,  at  flight,  that  I  could  dip 
My  wings  in  rhythm  to  the  song  of  You, 
Enough  that,  when  the  storm  was  at  its  height 
And  for  the  first  time,  cold  winds  sought  me 

down, 

It  was  your  lovely  breast,  your  summer  heart, 
That   made   my   soul    a   nest,    and   gave   me 

warmth.  .  .  . 

Our  Youth  which  lives  beyond  the  touch  of 

years, 

Stained  with  the  wine  of  Music  without  end 
Is  Dream  Eternal.  ...  I  recall  the  day 
As  clearly  as  hill-trees  painted  against 
A  sky  of  marching  clouds  .  .  .  still  do  I  say 
Love  is  for  Silence  and  for  Prayer  ...  we 

lie 

Above  the  houses  with  their  mortal  noise, 
Wrapped  in  the  peace  God  sends  to  Love  and 

Hills 

Above  the  shadows  .  .  .  still  in  one  embrace 
I  take  you  with  me  to  Eternity!  .  .  . 

[53] 


XXXXII 

The  tall  men  run  the  harbor, 
They  stand  before  the  wheel 
With  lifted  faces  that  the  sky 
Took  centuries  to  heal 

Of  paleness,  for  the  land  is  lean 
And  men  find  burdens  there, 
But  the  sea  will  toss  her  cargoes 
Easily  in  the  air. 

The  small  men  walk  and  talk  and  walk 
But  never  do  a  thing, 
The  tall  men  curl  the  ropes  to  deck 
And  as  they  work  they  sing. 

The  harbor  likes  tall  men  to  sing 
More  than  the  green  ocean, 
(Harbors  and  their  lamps  are  altars 
Where  ships  come  for  devotion.) 

The  small  men  keep  the  long  long  lists, 
They  keep  them  straight  and  neat, 
But  the  tall  men  keep  the  harbor 
And  kneel  down  at  its  feet. 

[54] 


The  small  men  sit  and  count  and  count 
And  never  sing  at  all, 
And  yet  they  seem  to  know  the  sea 
And  how  the  whistles  call. 

There  is  a  prayer  in  the  tide 
Which  only  tall  men  hear, 
The  tall  pines  know  it  just  before 
A  storm  approaches  near. 

And  sometimes  in  a  morning  field 
A  word  comes  down  from  God 
And  only  the  tall,  thin  daisies 
Will  understand  and  nod. 


The  tall  men  run  the  harbor, 
They  stand  before  the  wheel 
Like  singing  priests;  their  voices  are 
Cathedral  organ-peal.  .  .  . 


[55] 


XXXXIII 

I 

This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me 
Always  when  I  have  been  away  from  you, 
Beautiful  sea;  God's  book  of  holidays, 
Turning   white    parchments    under   lamps   of 
blue. 

Let  me  not  walk  the  grainy  lands  too  long, 
For  my  heart  fills  itself  with  dust  and  death, 
And  pallid  streets,  and  cities,  and  brown  roads 
Lead  me  but  back  again  to  your  brave  breath. 

There  is  a  path  that  does  not  ever  end 
Where  earth  paths  end,  in  flowers  eased  with 

dew, 

There  is  a  silent  trail  no  traveller 
Has  stumbled  on,  where  no  bee  ever  flew. 

There  is  a  journey  that  is  never  done, 
There  is  a  brook  whose  sound  no  pebbles  play, 
This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me,1 
This  is  the  weeping  tears  can  not  allay. 

[56] 


II 

You  who  have  found  the  valley  and  the  hill, 
How  I  should  like  to  be  of  you  once  more, 
Who,  tired  or  timid  of  the  trees  and  flowers, 
Make  a  soft  bed  upon  the  forest  floor. 

Bright  are  the  hills  at  dawning,  bright  and  still 
The  steaming  valleys  in  the  quiet  morn, 
And  on  the  hillsides  bloom  the  violets — 
Light-headed,  girlish  flowers,  million  born. 


[57] 


Ill 


This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me, 
Always  my  heart  is  crying  with  that  pain, 
There  is  no  ending  of  the  wave,  no  shore 
That  does  not  lead  me  back  to  you  again. 

If  I  have  known  your  beauty,  you  have  robbed 
For  that  sweet  treasure,  all  my  ancient  rest, 
The  proud,  swift  joy  of  plowing  up  a  field, 
The  harvest  glow  of  faces  in  the  west, 

The  silver  morning  wind,  the  start  of  rain 
Among  the  trees,  the  crow's  call  in  the  sky, 
The  grass-enchanted  hillside  where  sleep  comes 
Like  the  coming  of  a  small  butterfly. 

Rain  sweeps   the   decks  with   foaming,  angry 

fear, 

There  is  no  fireside  shelter  for  a  crew; 
This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me, 
Beautiful  sea,  when  I  am  thrilled  with  you ! 


[58] 


IV 

Aching  and  tired,  a  ship  crawls  into  port 
With  crumpled  sails,  like  a  torn  butterfly. 
Pinned  to  a  post  she  lies,  and  when  the  sun 
Warms  her,   and  soothes  her  pain,  she  does 
not  cry 

As  one  too  young  for  burdened  conquering; 
She  rears  her  head,  shakes  off  the  ready  tear, 
Breathes  of  the  harbor  till  her  wings  are  full, 
And  seeks  your  arms  again,  forgetting  fear. 


[59] 


Where  is  the  laughter  of  your  early  promises 
That  tore  my  easy  love  from  earth  to  you? 
Where  is  the  hill  that  hides  you  from  my  heart, 
Where  is  the  passion  that  your  rhythm  grew? 

If  I  could  find  desire  in  your  eyes, 
If  I  could  touch  your  lips,  my  soul  would  rest, 
But  in  your  wanton  love  there  is  no  goal, 
In  your  embrace  a  darker  dream  is  pressed. 

Your  eyes  are  sunken  caves  of  bravery, 
Ybur  lips  are  dead  fires  after  long,  long  rain; 
This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me, 
Always  my  heart  is  crying  with  that  pain. 

If  I  could  catch  your  laughter  in  my  ears, 
If  I  could  bind  your  bosom  to  my  heart! 
This  is  the  sorrow  that  returns  to  me, 
Always  that  fearful  dream  will  not  depart. 


[60] 


XXXXIV 

Always  the  wave  turns  back  upon  the  shore 
After  long  days  of  open  sea  and  sun, 
Stretching  wide  arms  on  warming  sands  once 

more 
To  feel  the  magic  of  oblivion, 

For  though  the  riding  seas  are  crowned  in  gold 
And  toss  their  changing  sides  in  deep  delight, 
There  are  no  sands  for  rest,  no  shells  to  hold, 
No  songs  to  play  along  the  beach  at  night  .  .  . 

They  say  the  wind  is  made  of  air  and  foam; 
I  think  the  wind  is  God's  compelling  hands 
That  send  the  sailor  to  his  island  home 
More    eager    than    dull   waves    on    glistening 
strands. 


[61] 


xxxxv 

MOTHER 

Over  the   paleness   of   your  saint-like    face 
Let  no  pain  mar  that  tiredness  and  grace 
Which  none  may  understand  save  those  who 

race 
Timeless  and  poet-wise  and  music  limbed. 

Over  your  eyes  some  Heaven  unbedimmed, 
Mounting  new  angels  of  your  Godlike  Good, 
And  on  that  forehead  white  with  solitude 
Let  no  sorrow  again  be  understood. 

You  are  my  dream,  my  book  of  God,  my  song, 
In  your  sweet  soul  my  poems  all  belong. 


[62] 


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